


Are my edges sharp?

by peachino



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Female Bilbo Baggins, Female Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Hands, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:08:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29183775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachino/pseuds/peachino
Summary: After escaping the horrid Goblin caves, and after climbing down from the steep Carrock, Bilbo contemplates holding hands with Thorin.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins & Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 6
Kudos: 65





	1. Chapter 1

Bilbo held up her right-hand palm to the golden sunlight streaming through the mossy trees, examining the state of it carefully. She tracked the pale blue veins twisting close to the surface of her wrist under a slight brushing of dried mud, and followed the lines up to the deep natural folds of the palm, clenching once, then once again as if to check the feeling was still present.

She used her left thumb-nail, which was still miraculously long and shaped like a pumpkin seed, despite the hang-nails that never ceased on her smallest and ring fingers, and scraped off the mud, the dust falling to the forest floor.

She turned the hand over. A raised red line streaked across the skin between her first finger and thumb, twisting gently like the Brandywine River. She tried to recall where she had got the scratch, but dismissed it among the countless other scrapes and bruises she had achieved since the adventure had begun. 

The Company had just made their way down the Carrock and were still getting their bearings before they moved off with Gandalf again in the lead. Bilbo was certain that when she had been set down by the eagles, she had almost taken off her entire thumb on one of their sharp claws.

Bilbo could only imagine how scruffy she looked, but her hands took up the topmost portion of her vanity. Although Hobbits were known to outsiders for their over-large feet and short stature— although Bilbo was adamant she was a perfectly reasonable size and it was everybody else who was over-large— it was less well-known that Hobbit hands were often considered an attractive feature in itself.

At the very least, hands were a mark of good hygiene and wealth, with the more lucrative hobbit holes containing multiple sets of nail clippers, nail oil and files.

Her own delicate hands had often been admired by the other girls in the Schoolhouse in Hobbiton when she was a young tween, and had even been caressed, ahem, amorously, once or twice by the few suitors she had in her time. As the daughter of a gentle-hobbit, although her hands had been used for most chores, from washing up to kneading bread, they were not marked by roughness or intense hard work. Her hands were soft and her nails were usually neatly trimmed to soft ovals, with no visible dryness marking the skin around the nail bed, the product of a regime of exotic creams bought in the town market and protective gloves. 

In the rush to leave the morning of the journey, she had forgotten her favourite pot of hand balm that smelled of fresh lemons, leading to what she believed was the fast decline of 50 years of upkeep. Although she had complained about the lack of handkerchief when the Company first moved onwards, something held her back from moaning about the hand-balm. She had heard rumours that the Race of Men cared very little for hand and nail care, with the exception perhaps of their rich ladies, regularly putting their hands in all manner of filthy places. With no other knowledge to go on, she had assumed at the beginning that dwarves were likely similar. It would make sense, from what she knew of their metal and stone craft abilities, for them to pay no attention to the grooming habits of one of their most practical appendages. 

Many of the company had been wearing thick leather gloves throughout the start of their journey to fend off the cold, and any attempts to check their hands for clues had been quickly forgotten by the numerous other scrapes that threw their journey off-course. She thought back to the first meeting with the rambunctious group in Bag End; No one had offered their hand to her to shake at the door as was customary for Hobbits to greet each other, which in all honesty had been the first in a very long list of their abominable rudeness that evening. Perhaps there were certain Dwarven rules against handshakes, she had mused, or even against hand contact altogether? Maybe to offer her hand to them would be incredibly offensive, and make her place in the company even more suspect.

One of the best times for her to abate this curiosity, the lovely moment where Thorin held her in his strong arms at the top of the Carrock, she was too giddy with joy and gazing up into his handsome features to even spare a glance right or left to the heavy weight sitting on her shoulders. A part of her hoped that an appreciation for nice hands were something Hobbits and Dwarves shared, this attraction something in common, however, another part of her dreaded this for the state her hands had now come to. 

A dark blur suddenly loomed up behind her hand, startling her out of her reverie, and she quickly snatched it back.

“Oh! I—” 

Thorin himself swam into focus in front of her, his left hand in front of her at an odd angle before he quickly moved it down to his side. Wait, perhaps he had been meaning to reach out to her and grasp her- 

“Do you require any medical assistance for your hands, Mistress Baggins?” Thorin interrupted her frantic thought, nodding down at her now clenched fists. “Óin can look at them for you if you are troubled.”

She blushed. How ironic that he so easily asked about her and she still felt too awkward to check the same for him. This at least cleared up whether hands were any sort of sacred to Dwarves, which was actually rather a relief when caught inspecting how rough hers were.

“Oh no, I have no issues, I mean, I was just looking at them really, just for a second and...” She trailed off as the Dwarf grunted and gave her an intense, searching look before moving off to where Dwalin and Bofur stood discussing the path ahead. 

“Oh bother it all,” she grumbled, kicking a small abandoned snail shell on the ground in front of her so that it shot out and hit the base of a large oak tree nearby.

A muffled laugh came from her right and she turned to see Fíli raising his left eyebrow at her from the gnarled overturned log he was sitting on. He was currently cleaning his knife with a cloth, and had a front row view for her embarrassment. 

“Do you have something to say to me Fíli?” she grumbled, moving forward to sit next to him on the make-shift bench.

The young dwarf hummed, one corner of his mouth ticked-up in a half smile. He again swiped the cloth down the sharp edge of the dagger, his fingers pinched around the blade’s handle. From what she could see, his hands were in a much better state than she imagined, similar to her own in terms of the obligatory scrapes and dirt, but his nails looked clipped and with no discernible issues. Going by what she could see of his hair and moustache, perhaps Fíli liked to be well-groomed like her, and she felt a rush of affection for him as a kindred spirit, adding another piece to the puzzle of the Dwarves. 

The bold reply of, “Of course not Mistress Baggins. Nothing to say at all,” shook her out of her thoughts.

“I feel like you only bring out the ‘Mistress Baggins’ when you’re being cheeky, Master Fíli,” she teased, leaning her shoulders back in an effort to stretch out her back, sore from the constant walking. And running. And climbing. And running again. And saving the King’s life. It was bound to catch up to her sooner or later. 

“I’ve never been cheeky in my life Mistress Baggins, I’m the most respectable, polite, courteous gentleman in the whole world. I learned from the very best, you know,” he gestured over to Thorin's back across the clearing. 

They looked at each other in the eye for a second solemnly, before Bilbo’s face quickly crumpled and she dissolved into a fit of giggles and snorting along with Fíli, leaning her forehead against the dwarf’s heaving shoulder. 

She was amazed that she now even felt comfortable enough to engage in these kinds of friendly interactions with the two young Dwarfs, particularly after the rocky start to their journey. Since the encounter with the Pale Orc it was like a brave new world. Where before she was treated with distance, albeit a respectful one, now she couldn’t walk two feet without being in someone’s bubble. She had decided that she rather liked it. Growing up as an only child and then being left with no parents for so long, had made a hidden part of her crave closeness. 

“And what are you two laughing about?” Kíli questioned as he wandered up to the pair. 

Bilbo wiped the tears that had collected on her lower lash line with the sleeves of her blouse taking huge gulping breaths as she calmed herself down. 

“Your brother is telling me the biggest falsehoods, Kíli, he’s really quite an atrocious liar,” she heaved out.

Kíli flopped down on Bilbo’s other side, his hair flicking at her cheek as he settled his bottom down on the hard surface, moving backwards and forwards to find a comfortable position. She regarded the long braids that flowed down from his temple curiously, as although common sense told her there was a reason for their intricacy, she had not yet asked about it, again fearing that questions may be seen as impudent. 

Kíli seemed to have no such worries about customs, poking one stubby finger through one of the ringlets that spilled down Bilbo’s arm and pulling gently to stretch it out straight. He seemed fascinated when it sprung back up into its former shape, and did it again a few times as if to test whether anything different would happen.

In all honesty, she was quite glad for him taking the lead like this. Having little interactions with the other inhabitants of the world when she was back in the Shire, she was never sure of the traps one could fall into by doing something that would be considered completely normal amongst her own kind. She quietly resolved to test this casual hair touching later, albeit tentatively, so as not to upset anyone. 

“Ah Fíli can’t lie for dragon dung,” Kíli nudged Bilbo with his elbow, another casual touch, “Next time you should watch out for his little moustache twitches! They always give him away. Like that time when he tried to convince Mama that an animal must have snuck in the window and swiped the fruit pie she had just baked off the kitchen table, it was like his mouth was doing a jig. And he still had blackberry juice in his beard! ”

Fíli covered his moustache with his palm in an effort to shield himself from the accusation whilst glaring daggers at Kíli over the top of Bilbo’s head, “Durin’s Beard Kíli, you didn’t have to tell her that!”

Bilbo laughed at his misfortune, “I’ll keep an eye on him Kíli, though I’d like to think I will not be properly lied to any time soon.”

Kíli nodded vigorously in agreement while Fíli packed his knives away in a huff, before the three of them settled down again quietly, the scratchy twigs still attached to the felled log poking her backside uncomfortably. 

Bilbo decided to dig out her Father’s favourite carved pipe from the pocket of her dress to stretch out the pleasant moment. She absentmindedly packed the pipe-weed she found in her other pocket into the bowl, also finding a matchbox and lighting it up.

In an effort to test her earlier idea about the quickly dwindling boundaries between her and her travel-mates, she offered it to Fíli first and he took it happily, murmuring his thanks and taking a long pull before handing it back. She then quickly offered it to Kíli on her left so as to not cause any discontent between the brothers. He also took it from her, smiling, blowing a wobbly ring and handing it back with a very sweet, “Thank you for sharing with us Bilbo.”

She grinned at him in return, and with the pipe back in hand she began blowing perfect circular smoke rings in quick succession, just like the ones she was creating when Gandalf showed up at her front gate all those weeks ago.

A few minutes passed with this serene image, the three of them leaning on each other and enjoying the sun and cool breeze that wound its way through the deep green trees.

Bofur passed close by the group with his arms leaden with whatever provisions had survived-- holey blankets and wrapped dry breads. “We’re moving out soon, so get a move on lads. And lasses,” he afforded a wink at Bilbo before carrying on moving towards the others, quickly followed by Bifur who was busy muttering a jolly tune to himself.

Kíli jumped to his feet whilst the other two moved at a sedate pace, with Bilbo dumping out the ash and placing the pipe back in her deep, secure pockets. The dress was one of her mother’s designs, a rustic earth-like brown with plenty of room for movement and a length that ended just above her Hobbit feet. Despite this shortness, the hem was six inches caked in mud, no doubt a product of her struggles through the waterlogged Goblin cave and her battle of riddles against that loathsome creature. She wore a blouse underneath as a shift, as well as an unseen pair of cropped trousers that stopped under her knee. Her father’s red coat completed the ensemble, scuffed and marked, but the rich scarlet still stuck out vibrantly. The packed items of clothing had been layered on pretty soon into the journey in an attempt to stave off the cold.

Fíli got to his feet next, and held out his hand to offer to her, “Up you get Bilbo.”

Emboldened by the evidence of carefree touch earlier, Bilbo placed the small hand she had been contemplating earlier in his large coarse one, again taking note of the general tidiness of them, and smiled softly up at him as he gently pulled her up to her feet.

She had expected him to then drop the hand as they walked forward, but to her surprise, he held onto her. She supposed they enjoyed how easily she could be moved like this, smaller as she was, but she did not feel infantilized. Rather, she felt a surge of warmth and protection, as if the elder brother extended their shared bond to her as a sister.

The three of them walked over to the others that were readying to move on, but she was quickly separated from the brothers as they were called over by Dwalin to answer questions about supplies. Fíli squeezed her hand before dropping it to swing at her side. She stared after them for a few seconds with what she was sure was an embarrassing soppy expression.

“It seems you have my nephews wrapped around your little finger, Miss Baggins,” a voice came from behind her. She spun around to face Thorin. How on earth had he snuck up on her like that!

“I’m not sure if they can be that easily persuaded,” she said, embarrassed to be seen looking so fond, “But they are very sweet and clearly well-intentioned, uh, despite the frogs they kept putting in my bed-roll! And that time with the trolls- well, you know what happened there, but they are smart!” She paused for a second. Maybe she was stretching the truth a bit here, but she couldn’t help it, so she continued, “Well, usually, and well they’re just… well they’re just good aren’t they. They’re good boys,” her affection for them had tellingly slipped into her voice and she paused her rambling, clearing her throat, “And it’s Bilbo, please.” The emphasis on her name was just an attempt to get some control over the situation. Never mind that it made her feel a bit tingly to hear his broad accent linger around the vowels. 

Thorin stared at her with a shrewdness in his sharp eyes, but then smiled as if she had said something very right indeed. His arms were folded across his barrelled chest, accentuating the bulging muscles of his biceps, and despite the scratches and dried blood that littered his face, he was still one of the most handsome creatures she had ever seen. Bilbo could feel the blood rising to her cheeks and her knees felt a bit wobbly as she stared helplessly first at his arms, then his chest and his face, and back to his arms.

His chest seemed to puff out like a hawk under her attention, “They get that from their Uncle,” he stated wryly. 

“And his modesty too I presume,” She found herself flirting back, deciding to embrace this new-found ease with the group after her dangerous stunt before the pale Orc. 

He smirked back at her, happy she was playing along.

“Of course. And do you get your recklessness and hastiness from your parents too, Bilbo? Your habit of getting into trouble?” he teased. 

Bilbo’s stomach plummeted to her ankles. Although she recognised that it was an attempt at playfulness, the irrational part of her, twisted from years of self-doubt, told her that this was his truth. He clearly still thought of her as some nuisance better left at home. It seemed that although she had fought to prove herself time and time again, throwing herself in front of a Beast no less, he would still find a way to offend her. Of course his declaration that he had never been so wrong in his life could not be everlasting. 

She thought of saying something cutting back. A smoky twisted version of her own voice, one that she had never heard before, bounced around her skull. It told her to throw a jab at his open wounds, bring up his own failures. A freezing sensation started to grow from her left side, as if someone had placed a piece of ice onto her skin in an attempt to draw out a fever.

She struggled against this odd desire to overreact in an effort to be the (metaphorical) bigger person, and the strange feeling, resolving to instead ignore his rudeness as another essential personality trait. The burning stopped, and Bilbo put the queer feeling to the back of her mind. 

She stormed past him, nose held high and brown dress swaying angrily like a swarm of wasps around her calves.

Just as she was in line with him, her big toe must have caught in a tree root (or, more truthfully, the angle of her gaze as she refused to look at him meant she was not looking where she was going), and catapulted her forwards. As she saw her life flash before her eyes, a pair of strong arms caught her about the waist, the warmth bleeding through the soft cotton and heating her from the inside out.

The air knocked out of her, she braced herself in the face of her mortification, realising she would have to say thank you to the source of her troubles. She knew he would never apologise—

“Please forgive me, Bilbo,” the words cut into her thoughts. The gravity of his tone startled her, and she tilted her head up to meet the repentance written all over his face, from the upset twist of his mouth, to the lines creased into the sides of his eyes and his strong brow. She twisted around so that she was more upright, and found he had clutched her hand hard as if to emphasize his plea.

This was her chance, and she studied their joined hands. She found them just as pleasing as the rest of him, strong and muscular, big knuckles sprouting surprisingly long fingers with smooth fingernails. A lesson in contradiction, the King and the Blacksmith. 

It felt like Bilbo suddenly understood the problem. They were so similar really. Stubborn to a fault, and with a deep sense of pride that came from a long history of the underestimation from others. They just kept missing each-other by inches, lashing out in a passion, demanding attention rather than speak plainly about what they wanted.

She had long ago thought that love was something that swept you away with not much say for the people involved. She should have known that it was always a choice. A conviction to stop hurting each other and instead choose tenderness. Although she knew the urge to not accept the apology without letting him stew, the way she had observed other women string their lovers along when causing offence, she knew it would backfire. She knew what it had cost him to soften his sharp edges for her.

Her eyes flickered over the lonely King’s features again and allowed a small smile to grow, “It is forgiven,” and then more softly, “No harm done.”

The cracks of tension began to close with her words the longer they stared at each other, both of them recognising the turning point for what it was.

The moment was shattered by a bird launching itself from the canopy above them, calling greetings of joy to its nest-mates. Bilbo could feel herself soaring upwards too, following them on their happy flight.

Thorin spoke first, “We’re about to move out. Get your things together Miss Baggins.” He searched her face for her acquiescence, so she threw a wobbly smile at him and nodded. Appeased, Thorin turned around and marched to the others, shouting for Balin and Dwalin to attend him, his hand flexing at his hip.

She stared after him, hollowed out by the occurrence. She caught the eye of Fíli and Kíli across the clearing, who had clearly been watching the strange scene, and both just raised their eyebrows at her as if asking what on earth just happened.

Raising them back, she decided to be enigmatic for once in her life, and took in a deep breath of the earthy scent that lingered in her nose from her closeness with the Dwarf. It was the smell he seemed to carry with him wherever he went. Honestly it made her drowsy, and reminded her of the little hobbit hole she had left behind. 

Across the clearing, Gandalf was needling Thorin into accepting a visit for supplies at a nearby house of an old friend, his pointy hat bobbing in irritation as Thorin didn’t acquiesce easily. Fíli beckoned her over to the group and off she went, making sure to keep an eye out for any more tree roots.

They formed a raggedy line, and she ended up standing next to Ori, who’s calm presence never failed to soothe her. He gave her a shy smile under his blocky fringe and quickly launched into an interrogation of Hobbit agricultural processes, not stopping for a breath even when Dwalin shouted, “Move on you lazy buggers!” 

And off they went.


	2. Chapter 2

The sun was high in the noon-day sky and Bilbo’s skin was warm to the touch. She stretched, feeling more like a cat in a sun-beam than a Hobbit, luxuriating in the peaceful moment and the shallow breeze. 

Beorn’s garden was absolutely terrific, she thought. The closest thing to home she’d felt in a long time, full of bright blooming flowers and thick grass, the tall hedge sheltering her from the menace of the outside world. She had found a corner at the bottom of the garden furthest from the veranda to settle down, and hadn’t seen so much as the leather boot of a Dwarf in several hours. After so long in each other's pockets, it felt like a welcome pause from the Dwarves constant movement and chatter. She loved them all dearly, but she did need a few moments to herself in peace.

She took a bite of the plum she snagged from the heavy tree that covered the majority of the garden, and a trickle of juice ran down her chin. She decided to leave it there rather than wiping it away, revelling in her decadence. The stickiness lingered on her lips and collected in the corner of her mouth for her to lick off later.

A basket lay next to her, filled with the gorgeous smells of rosemary, lavender, lemon verbena and carefully wrapped jar of honey. She had whispered to Beorn whilst their breakfast was cleared away, that she wondered if he had a few ingredients she could use to craft a softening oil for her hands, that she would pay him back by providing a poultice or remedy of sorts for himself.

She rather liked the mountainous man who had eventually welcomed the party to his Halls, and she liked him even more when he smiled warmly at her and said he would get his servants to gather the necessary materials.

“I will take payment in the form of a kiss, little Bunny,” Beorn exclaimed deviously.

She ignored Thorin’s narrow eyed glare and kissed the bristly cheek Beorn leant down to offer her. He winked at her as he withdrew, “Why, Miss Baggins has the softest lips I’ve felt in a long time. Once your quest is over you must return here,” he continued slyly, “Without the Dwarves next time.” She was quite impressed by his dedication to pissing off the Company, which proved extremely effective, as a squawk of indignation echoed up around the long wooden table. Dori patted his forehead with a white handkerchief, with Balin next to him looking a tad troubled, all whilst Gandalf turned an amused eye over the scene.

Bilbo sat there slowly turning the colour of a ripe tomato, but the injury at the thought of being kept here like a pet was soothed by the hilariousness of the sight of a big vein in Dwalin’s shiny forehead almost bursting with his disbelief.

A large grey dog had stopped by about an hour ago with the basket of goodness carried in its mouth, and gently placed it down next to her. She had sat up on her elbows in order to thank him, but collapsed backwards once they had left, the heat making her lazy. 

It was probably good that she had not seen a Dwarf recently, as the climbing temperature had led to her falling propriety— a few buttons loosened on the chest of her blouse and the sleeves rolled up to reveal her slim wrists and hands. She had handed both her brown dress and red coat off to a different dog to be cleaned earlier at Beorn’s insistence, and was now rather exposed.

Her fingernails were mostly even now. On the journey on from the Carrock, Ori had quietly offered her his own small paring knife when she had felt comfortable enough to complain about the state of her fingers, figuring Ori was as good as any to bring the subject up. He did not laugh at her, but rather he glanced at the offered digits with a rosiness injected into the apples of his high cheekbones, digging out the knife from his pack and pushing it towards her stuttering, “Please take it, Bilbo, our folk share tools with our friends.” His devastatingly sincere look when he said the word friend made her reach out and take it. Although a part of her had recoiled at using someone else’s personal hygiene tools like that, she just as quickly stamped it down in the face of such freely given kindness. It was beautifully engraved, and she exclaimed over it when he shyly admitted it was his own maker’s mark, carved there himself.

She noticed Nori looking approvingly over his shoulder at her from his short stride in front of the pair, his position revealing him as keeping an eye on his younger brother.

Sharing with others was just another thing she had to get used to since the quest began, whether it was small knives or boiled potatoes around the campfire. She let out a long sigh, emptying her lungs with the force of her expression. The Dwarves were intent on making her change her ways, so much so that she scarcely recognized the Hobbit that had tumbled out of her door aching for an adventure. She was all rough around the edges, and although she longed to return to the tea cosy and lace doilies of Bag End, she revelled 

Speaking of softness, the beeswax and other oils in the basket were likely the right temperature for mixing together for her concoction, the fragrance pooling out into the open air.

Sluggishly, she lifted herself to her elbows again, pushing her body forward and this time successfully coming to a sitting position. Now more upright, she could see she wasn’t as alone as she thought. The garden was absolutely riddled with Dwarves, spread out in clusters across the wide grass. They all must have had the same idea as her to enjoy the sunshine. 

The closest to her was actually Kíli, who lay about ten feet from her in the long grass, his other half nowhere near, disproving her hypothesis that they were attached at the hip. His long dark hair was spread out around his head, the squid-like tendrils reaching. He looked like a sleeping Prince from a fairy-tale. Ironic really, given his position as one of Thorin’s heirs to the throne of Erebor. And his capacity for mayhem.

His eyes suddenly opened as if she had called his name, and he turned his head to face her, noticing she had popped up. He grinned and rolled his body over and over until he reached her, just like the Hobbit children used to do down the slopes of the Shire, giggling as they landed in a heap at the bottom.

He came to a sudden stop, almost crushing her with his momentum. Like her he had shed some of his layers, leaving him in a dark grey tunic shirt and loose trousers. Although she could not see any weapons on his person, she had no doubt that he was still armed somehow. A necklace hung from his neck that she had not noticed before, bundled up in thick furs as they were. It was a fine silver chain that stopped to rest on the skin of his sternum with a disc-like charm. It was very beautiful, flat and shiny in the bright sun, and she found herself curious that such delicate jewellery would be worn by such practical Dwarves.

He smiled up at her, giddy, “Enjoying the sunshine Bilbo?”

She rolled her eyes at him, “I was enjoying the peace and quiet before you arrived.” 

“Oh come on, Bilbo! I’m not that bad company am I,” he spat out a bit of hair that had climbed into his mouth from his tumbling act.

“I thought Dwarves didn’t much care for sunshine and open spaces,” she plucked up a few sprigs of grass and arranged them neatly on her knee in order of shortest to tallest, like she used to as a child. Maybe his youthful enthusiasm was catching. 

Somehow Kíli’s smile grew wider, “I’ll let you in on a little secret. Even though us Dwarrows tend to stay below ground in our mountains and forges, we do also enjoy a bit of sunbathing if the mood is just right.”

“And the mood is ‘just right’ now? After being chased by all manner of foul beasts and disgusting Orcs?” She truly didn’t understand what went on in his head sometimes. 

“Exactly! What’s a better time to relax than after escaping almost certain death. I think we deserve a bit of sun after being in those right awful Goblin Tunnels. This is well-deserved, premium relaxation time Bilbo.”

“I think you’d make a very good Hobbit then,” she huffed, “Choosing relaxation and fun in spite of danger.”

He lifted his hand to place it over his eyes to block out the glare.

“Y’know, I heard that some Elves believe we can’t survive in sunlight like we’re some sort of nocturnal monsters,” Kíli mused. She noticed that he preferred to call them Elves, rather than his Uncle and cousin’s choice of ‘Weed-eaters’ or ‘Tree-shaggers,’ which was another thing she liked about him.

“You’re some sort of something, alright,” she joked, laughing when he headbutted her thigh in reprimand, the necklace jostled outside of his tunic and his hand falling back to his sides.

She reached out and poked it with her index finger. She could make out the thin lines of a rune carved in the surface, but she obviously had no idea what it meant. There was clearly a lot of care that had gone into its construction.

“It’s nice isn’t it? Fíli made it for me.” Kíli’s obvious pride in his brother shone through his words. “His speciality is fine jewelry, and he’s going to be a Master Jeweller when we reclaim the Mountain, Thorin said so. He made most of my hair clasps, and he made this tiny little warrior figurine for Gloin’s son, Gimli, to play with but his Ma said it was too nice to get lost so it lives on their mantlepiece. He’s like a sorcerer with his ability to shape delicate metal.”

He dug out a small stone from his trouser pocket and offered it to her to look, “And see, the necklace matches this rune stone Mama gave me before we left to meet Uncle and the others at your house.”

“What does it mean?” she asked.

His mouth twisted ruefully, “It’s a reminder of sorts. A token to remind me of her. And my promise that I would find my back to her. Fíli’s necklace is similar, but he also said it has a powerful protection laid on it against spells that could turn me into a worm, but I'm not sure if I believe him.”

“And your mother...she is back in Ered Luin, yes?”

He nodded, “Once we reclaim the Mountain we will send word for her along with our other Kin, and we will be reunited in our true home.”

Bilbo had forgotten that Kíli had never actually stepped foot inside the Lonely Mountain. She couldn’t imagine feeling this sense of longing for a place she’d never even seen before. He must have grown up on stories about the grand halls and extraordinary wealth permeating the place. She despaired over the potential that they would find the place in ruins, still covered in the stench of dragon and death. She also despaired over the potential that Kíli might not actually return to the arms of his mother at the end of their adventure. Lady Dís must have been incredibly brave to allow both her children and her brother to set off on such a dangerous quest. She had heard that Fíli and Kíli’s father had passed some years ago, leading Thorin to take more of a parental role in the raising of the two young Dwarves. With the three of them gone, Dís would be alone.

She wouldn’t be surprised if Dís had begged them not to leave.

“I’m her favourite you know,” Kíli interrupted her depressing thoughts with familiar cheek.

Bilbo could actually believe it, having seen for herself the nature of a mother with her youngest child. She could see that Thorin was quite partial to Fíli, likely from their similar temperaments, but she could also see that he doted on both his sister-sons completely. She smiled, bittersweet at the thought, missing her own parents like a piece of her soul. 

“Right. Of course. And I’m sure Fíli wouldn’t disagree with that assessment?”

Kíli didn’t reply, just stuck his tongue out and scrunched his eyes up like a troll. Charming.

She studied the surrounding Dwarves, all in similar states of sunbathing as Kíli had said. She thought she could actually see Bombur actually conked out on his front without a shirt on on the other side of the garden. “Where is your brother anyway, he doesn’t seem to be in the garden and I thought the both of you were a package deal.”

“He’s probably still inside with Uncle, they wanted to talk about our next move.” He didn’t seem particularly upset about this, she thought, as younger siblings usually did when feeling left out of important things. 

“Your uncle could probably do with a bit of sunshine,” she muttered.

“That he could,” he replied. Good, so she wasn’t the only one that noticed his uncle was in a foul mood more often than not.

Kíli’s familiar grin turned wicked, “Or...maybe you just want to see Uncle with his shirt off.”

Her face felt hot as she shoved his forehead back down to the ground.

“I have half a mind to box your ears!” she warned.

“It’s perfectly understandable, Bilbo! Us Dwarves are well known for our handsome form,” at this Kíli rolled down his sleeve to his bicep and flexed to little effect. “No one can resist these battle-earned muscles.” 

Idiot! So everyone knew of her fancy for a certain taciturn Dwarf. Well this was just perfect. How much more injustice was she to experience! So what if she had lost herself daydreaming by the campfire once or twice looking at Thorin’s thick thighs, or the peek of his curled chest hair as he’d stretched before heading to his bed-roll. She would probably be spread very wide indeed if she were to sit on his lap… Well now that was a dangerous thought, better stop right there she thought. 

To save herself further embarrassment, she decided to fall back on the prudish stereotype she had garnered from the Dwarves when she met them at Bag End, screaming ‘Put that back!’ when they threw her mother’s best porcelain around. She scoffed and tutted at him, trying to emulate her own mothers way of conveying disappointment.

She must have made a very poor Belladonna impression, as Kíli paid her no mind, clearly pleased with the reaction he had gotten out of her.

“I’m just kidding Bilbo,” he grinned lazily, “You’re right that Uncle seems a bit out of sorts lately. Maybe you should go see how he is. Talk to him alone.”

She eyed him suspiciously and he gave her an attempt at innocence in return.

They were silent for a bit as she thought it over. The heat had not receded, and she could now feel a trickle of sweat begin to make its way down her neck to collect in the folds of her blouse. Maybe it was time to head back into the cool shade, and she could only imagine how pink her skin must be getting. Kíli was right, she sighed internally. This probably would be the last chance for a while she would be able to speak to Thorin alone. 

She was worried however that her presence may still not be welcome. He’d put his foot in his mouth earlier, and she was anxious that she would react irrationally if he did it again. Her earlier thoughts about choosing tenderness stumbled about her head: Would he choose her? Although she was very fond of him, she was not truly certain how she now fared in his eyes.

As if guessing her thoughts, Kíli broke through the quiet in a soft tone, “He cares for you a great deal, Bilbo. Trust me on this. If you give him a chance he will surprise you.”

She glanced at him surprised. He stared back at her earnestly, pressing her to believe him with wide stormy-blue eyes, the same colour as his brother and uncle.

She quickly got to her feet, slightly mollified. “Alright then, well— well I’ll see you later. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

“Yes Bilbooo,” he dragged out the syllables in her name. “Cross my heart.”

Gathering up her basket of supplies, she brushed off the grass lingering on her back and started to move off towards the low lying structure at the top of the garden.

“And besides, if you go in there showing that much skin, you’ll probably put him in a very good mood indeed,” he called.

She whirled around, kicked his leg and stormed away, feeling a very strong sense of deja vu. The sound of Kíli’s raucous laughter followed. Oh confound him! He just had to get the last word in.

Navigating around the Dwarves that had sprung up like weeds in the garden, many of whom waved hello to her or just snored, she made her way up to the house.

She remembered that Beorn had spoken earlier about patrolling the nearby land for any sign of Orcs and would likely not be back yet, with Gandalf similarly cagey about where he would be spending the day. Not yet able to see Thorin or Fíli on the Veranda, she moved quickly into the hall peering around for any sign of life. It was silent.

Creeping further forward she could see that no one sat at the long wooden benches, and the large fireplace at the centre of the room that had been roaring this morning was now stagnant, with smoke no longer making its way towards the ceiling. The smell still lingered however, along with the sharp tang of roasted meat. She wasn’t sure how the queer animal servants Beorn kept must have felt about that, but she decided to ignore it for now in favour of her investigation.

Bilbo stood there for a moment observing the stillness. It reminded her a little of Bag End, where she could sometimes go days without hearing another soul from within its confines, wrapped up in her books or sketching. She hadn’t brought any of her pencils or paper with her in her pack, but she hadn’t felt like drawing for a long time. Her last sketch had actually been a quick line-drawing of the Dwarves all singing the melancholy song in her home, the mournful tune that had convinced her to help them win back the Mountain. Perhaps she would begin drawing again when the Dwarves were reunited with their home in Erebor, if the dragon did not incinerate them all first.

Suddenly, her pointed ears picked up the faint sound of voices coming from the pillars at the northern side of the hall. She thought it sounded like the low rumble of Thorin coupled with the slightly higher tenor of Fíli’s voice, the back and forth between the two tones suggesting the beginnings of an argument was taking place. Bilbo was well adept at recognising the start of such antagonism from her dealings with the Sackville-Bagginses, and she was also curious about what could have caused a rift between the usually close uncle and nephew. Although her Baggins sense had ruled her for a great many years, her Took nature had been let loose lately, leading to a few choice instances of recklessness she was rather embarrassed about. Maybe it had all built up inside of her like a kettle boiling, and 50 years of repression had resulted in letting off a massive amount of steam to rival the most Tookish of Tooks. 

It was this recklessness that made her move forward to eavesdrop on the conversation.

She sat the basket down on the bench where she had left Sting and her other belongings earlier so as not to be weighed down. “May as well start taking this nasty burglar business seriously,” she grumbled, continuing to tread lightly on the wooden floor in the direction of the raised sounds. 

Nearing the front of the house, the voices became louder, but the bodies they were attached to had not yet appeared. She remembered that the house let out onto a long winding pebble path that led up to the wooden gate they had blasted through the night before, and she made her way to the front door in the search for answers. She found the great wooden door currently standing a quarter open, and she despaired over the Dwarven manners in somebody else’s home that they would leave a door ajar, no matter how heavy it was to open and close.

Just before attempting to step through the crack, she caught sight of the two bodies of Thorin and Fíli a few paces away. Thorin stood with his back facing away from the door, arms crossed in front of his chest as if defending himself, with Fíli facing him, his hands moving wildly in the air around his face.

Moving a few steps backwards into the gloom of the interior, she kept an eye on them before flattening against the wooden wall in order to get the best view, sincerely hoping she wouldn’t be plucking splinters out of her back after this— 

“—Cowardly, Uncle! Here you are faced with the opportunity to court one of the bravest creatures I’ve ever met. And you refuse to act upon it!” Fili’s distress caught her attention again, and she focused on the conversation with an ear accustomed to gossip.

“That is enough Fíli! I do not need you to tell me what I already know,” Thorin’s sharp admonishment would have made lesser beings tremble, but Fíli just seemed to stand straighter and take on more of a coaxing tone, “She would be a jewel in the crown of Erebor. She has proved willing to defend you in battle and is a fearless and cunning creature. Kíli and I both love her as if she were already a sister, and you know Mama would too. I do not understand you at all.”

Her heart fluttered and bloomed as she came to the realisation that they were indeed talking about her. So, she was not in this heart-ache alone? The inkling that they were speaking of her was further solidified by the continued clash of the two strong-minded individuals.

“You do not need to understand me, I do not have to let out all of my thoughts and feelings every moment like some sort of—some sort of snivelling weed-eater composing poetry under the moonlight!”

“But she may need to hear it! I’ve heard Hobbits announce their love in front of the whole Shire and they have a huge party to celebrate the courtship that rages for a week and that’s even before a marriage takes place,” Fíli declared, to Bilbo’s embarrassment. She had mentioned to him that when Lobelia had announced her engagement to Otho she had demanded a gigantic party in celebration, in which most of the extended family got roaring drunk at the thought of how unhinged the match would be. And he was now weaponizing it against poor Thorin who didn’t know better. 

“You’re making that up—” Fíli interrupted, “Well how do you know! It’s not like you’ve talked to her properly about such things. And you gave her such a hard time at the beginning she may not realise you love her at all! She deserves to hear it from you.”

Bilbo’s breath caught in her throat.

“You think I don’t know this! I’m well-aware that Bilbo deserves the world. I would proudly present her to my court as my Intended. I would dress her in the Mithril shirt I once crafted with my young and foolish hands, and the diadem made of rubies and opals bequeathed from my own mother, for her to stand by my side for the rest of my days,” Thorin hissed, his hands now clenching and unclenching at his sides. “I would carve her garden out of the very cliff of the mountain and fill it with the flowers of the Shire so that she could never feel homesick. But she deserves more than a blacksmith who has not set foot in his Kingdom for one hundred years. I wanted to secure our future before I confessed!”

Bilbo was quite honestly flabbergasted that Thorin believed she could need all of those rich things, when Fili’s suggestion was so much closer to the truth. She had been waiting to hear it from his own mouth, but the blasted Dwarf just had to make things difficult! 

Fíli nodded slowly at the admission, “I still think you should announce your intentions to her, Uncle, before—” at this he suddenly broke off and paused for a few seconds, before continuing in Khuzdul, with Thorin answering back in the guttural language.

Thorin then started to turn—Damn! She ran and quickly threw herself into one of the wooden benches next to her basket on the table, praising the fact that she had the foresight to offload it earlier, plucking out the beeswax wrapper and throwing it in front of her. This meant she was facing away from the door, unable to see their entrance. This may have been a good thing indeed, as she was sure to be looking very flustered.

Assuming the position of unwrapping the paper, she tried her best to look as if she had been involved in the process all along as she heard the clunk of the front door and the swing of the latch shut. 

Hearing two sets of footsteps enter the hall, Bilbo kept her spine curved and her head down as she attempted to bore a hole into the table with her stare, her hands moving with a mind of their own. One set of footsteps continued past her quickly to join the others in the garden, whilst the other moved closer and closer to her, before slumping down on the bench next to her like a puppet with its strings cut.

She peeked through her curtain of curls to find Thorin sitting there awkwardly staring at the rest of the ingredients left in the basket with his shoulders in line with his ears, as if the rosemary sprigs held the secrets of the universe. A burst of joyous laughter and chatter came from outside and made her jerk a little out of her seat in surprise, but by the lack of any reaction, Thorin seemed to have been expecting it.

Eyeing the burgeoning tormented look on his face (oh and how the Dwarf did like to torture himself!) she moved her hands back to her lap to rest and sighed. “You know I was listening don’t you.”

He tried a wry smile although his eyes still seemed pained, “ Fíli told me he saw a Hobbit skulking around in the shadows of the door. How long were you standing there?”

“Only a short time,” she answered vaguely. Better not extend the pain any further, she thought, her small body filling with resolve. She started in a careful tone, “I think, Thorin, that a crown of diamonds and sapphires may be a tad too heavy for this Hobbit head, and I have no idea what Mithril is. But I am willing to accept the garden, and the stubborn Dwarf it is attached to. I rather think I’m getting the better end of the deal.”

It was like dawn on a rainless July morning, or a meadow full of wildflowers, or a constellation of stars had burst into the room. Or, or, or. That was what it felt to Bilbo when her words dawned on Thorin for what they were, a pledge of her devotion. He did not need to declare his intentions in front of the whole village, for this, them together in a quiet room, was enough. His shoulders lowered as his body drained of tension and the long years seemed to melt away from his face.

“I believe I said rubies and opals Miss Baggins,” he teased. “I thought you were paying attention.”

Smiling so wide she thought her cheeks would strain from the pressure, she answered, “Pish-posh, right now I will settle for just a kiss.”

He seemed startled for a moment before he leaned in and kissed her lips tenderly. He kissed her like he was in love with her, his beard scraping against her chin with a delicious rasp. No sooner had the first kiss ended did another one begin, rougher than the first, his hand coming to cup her jaw and thumb the delicate shell of her ear. She shuddered and he had the good sense to continue the movement, tracing the point of it up and down, up and down. Gasping, her mouth opened for him to slip his tongue in, which she met cleverly, dredging up the tricks she had almost forgotten from her youth as they continued necking like teenagers. He must be able to taste the plum juice, a hysterical voice in her head giggled, before it was swept away with the force of the kiss. The next few moments were filled with the slick sounds of their tongues sliding together and the heat pulsating through her veins. Then, almost as quickly as it had boiled over, did it begin to slow down, with Thorin leaving a final press of his lips to the corner of her mouth. His hand slid down to her collarbone where her blouse had gaped from the earlier unbuttoning, sending another flash of desire through her. There was no urgency to the movement however, and drawing back slightly so their heads were still close together, they breathed each other in. 

Bilbo then gently placed her right hand with the palm-side up between them. Seconds later, Thorin’s much larger one rested on top and threaded his fingers through hers. A flock of birds had made their home in her chest, beating their tiny wings against her ribs. Together they held on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading <3  
> you can find me on tumblr @peachino

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first posted fic for many many years, not since I was a young teen writing (terrible) bandom fic on mibba I think. So this is basically me questioning if I can write creatively? Should I do that? How the hell do you pace writing? How do you write effective dialogue? etc etc
> 
> I've loved Bilbo/Thorin for so long I just felt like my first fic should show that, and sorry but I have a soft spot for female!Bilbo. Apologies if I've got anything completely wrong by canon standards! that's what happens when you stray really far from the source material by just reading the fanfic oops
> 
> Title from Sufjan Stevens, “Enchanting Ghost." And inspiration taken from ‘an eye for quality’ by linelan


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